After the War
by Bineshii
Summary: After the Dominion War, Ezri Dax wants to work with Jake Sisko to document the war for history. The opening scene of this story is a short story that I removed from fan fiction sites in order to lengthen it into a more complete story.


**After the War**

 **By Bineshii**

At Listening Post LV15821, March 8, 2375:

If the wind would stop its incessant moaning, my mind would stop fighting against it in our small outpost on this forgotten, barren world and life would at least be tolerable here. We are forever listening, but we have heard nothing. Nothing but empty noise for weeks now, over the com channels - even on subspace. Only the wind have we heard, wearing away at the corners of this temporary station shelter. Temporary has become permanent through neglect by our forces. We were supposed to be picked up and moved two supply runs ago. How long before the wind breaks down our lair and scatters equipment and bodies across this desolate, infertile, small twilight world circling too far out from its tiny red star?

We had supplies for six months but have made them stretch for nine. Is our side so beaten back that all records of our existence have been lost? Has the enemy overrun all our defenses? Destroyed the last of our fleets? Curse this war with those soulless Jem'Hadar and their shape shifting masters! There is nothing more alien and incomprehensible to me. I don't think our admirals understand them any better than us grunts, seeing how things are going. By now, even a faint signal from enemy ships would be a welcome sign that something outside of us still exists in the universe. I have no idea why I bother to log these desolate thoughts.

End journal entry

T'Zin thought she had picked up something with those sharp ears of hers yesterday, or was it the day before? We poured over the recording but it was a dead hum of empty, empty, space. Listening to what is virtually silence is like staring into endless fog which never dissipates. Useless. No, less than useless; it is slowly driving us mad. It might be a blessing to go insane before we starve to death.

When Na'vata, our Andorian chief petty officer died of what we think is his species' version of appendicitis, we put his body in the food locker. But seeing it there all the time was demoralizing, so we buried it in a shallow grave in the fine-grained sand outside. First the marker blew away in the wind. Then the wind dug out the body and pushed it god knows where. We had neither the strength of body nor presence of mind to trek across the sands and rocky outcroppings to look for it. It is gone, like the rest of us soon will be.

End journal entry

I have read all the novels on my padd at least six times. They no longer engage my mind. I barely know anymore if I am in a state of waking hallucination or the nightmares of sleep cycle. The very concept of routine has given in to a sense of grinding despair. I would no longer call us a functioning unit. We hunger for ship signals as much as for food but I have forgotten what we are supposed to do with those signals. In my more lucid moments, I fear we shall lie here unresponsive and let any signals from ships pass out of range and so lose the very last chance of rescue.

End journal entry

I thought I heard the voice of Na'vats a moment ago. But Na'vats is tumbling in the wind. He no longer leads us. The noise was T'Zin snoring again, perhaps. At least SHE can retreat into that Vulcan catalepsy called deep meditation. And I have heard about, but never discussed with her, the Vulcan ability to take such command of their autonomic functions that they are able to stop their own hearts. Vulcan suicide seems a logical concept to me now, but unattainable to an unbound Trill like me. I wonder if she could reach out that hot green hand of hers and stop my heart? And would she do it if I asked her to?

End journal entry

I was fumbling through the medical kit today for medicine which might possibly dampen hunger pains. Where is Sanders, our human healer? No, it's Vulcans who have healers; humans have medical technicians. So where is our medical technician when we need her? She was supposed to take care of minor medical needs between visits of that supply ship. Does that include our mental health? I suppose that it would, if she had returned from her "short" exploration of our environment looking for I forgot what. Oh yes, looking for anything which might be of use to us since the supply ship is so late. A desperate hope, but it was something to keep her busy, she said. I would guess her body is also tumbling in the wind by now. Maybe it has been bumping into Na'vats in a friendly dead man's liaison. Useless, both of them now, to T'Zin and me. I am so tired, so hungry.

End journal entry

Why am I still spending mental energy on thinking? A waste of what little energy I have left. I wish they had given us those hibernation boxes. The ones the Telerites invented are the best. Little hope for us now with the last of the food a distant memory. I suppose the Vulcan will hold out the longest, if she doesn't stop her own heart like they say Vulcans are capable of. Did I mention that ability before? She has not spoken to me in…hours?...days? Has she done herself in already or does she just think it useless to communicate anymore? I am too physically weak to get up and go over to check her cot, and mentally… I am only mildly curious. My voice is a faint whisper while recording this, but maybe her sharp ears are listening. Sleep. Back to sleep, now. That is the best thing.

End journal entry

I… just had…a thought? I have not eaten in god knows how long. Am I still hungry? I was hungry a while ago…oh so very hungry. Am I thirsty? Not. I suppose…not.

End journal entry

I hear…something. No. Nothing. Only that endless wind.

End journal entry

Oh, that wind. Ohhhh…

End journal entry

Aboard former science vessel _Desert Wind,_ now a Federation hospital/machine shop/supply ship renumbered _Federation General Vessel 2006,_ life was chaotic as usual on March 15, 2375.

"Our priority list just arrived, Captain."

"Right Lieutenant, Yes? Well?"

"It is on screen, Sir."

Glancing at the screen Captain Vilik said "They expect one ship to relocate the entire population?"

Vilik paced from the command chair to the starboard side of the bridge and turned back, his hands poised with finger tips tapping together. "Change course helmsman. Use the coordinates on screen. We will have to do the best we can."

"Aye, Sir. Course set. ETA four days."

"Thank you, Lieutenant. Too bad we must abandon the current mission. I will tell the mining settlement to ration their supplies and just hang on. They will be uncomfortable but not in danger. While I reassure them, contact Lieutenant Sapak and ask him to give me an accounting of cots and even just blanket rolls that we could set up in companionways."

Executing a sharp turn on his heal, Vilik strode toward his ready room, mumbling as he walked so the bridge crew would not notice his spurt of emotion. Sotto voce he said "what about the rest of those ships and ground bases that we keep bypassing on our priority list? Logically we just can't be everywhere! Some people are going to die! It cannot be helped, even with the war over."

In hold B of _Vessel 2006_ , a young man out of uniform and wearing comfortable workout sweats was hunched over an auxiliary computer, smacking it occasionally to keep the image steady. He looked up, blinking, eyes bleary with fatigue.

"Lieutenant Sapak, I have extracted a chart of listening posts from the remains of a computer in the charred hulk of that supply ship we found adrift last week. The supply routes I was able to decipher are within a range of two to eight days run for our ship. There are dates for planned deliveries for the weeks after our estimated destruction date of the supply ship. Those dates are in the last two months of the war. Should we tell the captain? I think we should investigate these post locations!"

"Crewman Taylor, I think not. We have enough to do with finding survivors in the remains of these devastated colonies and salvaging any materials that Federation worlds can use in the rebuilding of home world infrastructures. No, we do not have the time or resources to spend on listening posts which were undoubtedly abandoned before the war even ended. I heard orders for the abandonments when several of those supply ships disappeared without a trace. What we have here is a definitive case of what we must consider as the needs of the many. In this instance it means the needs of the few over the needs of the fewer or the none in a current priority list of fifty-four cases currently assigned to us, with more being added every day. Occupy your off-shift time with something more useful or more recreational than low priority, most likely futile, non cases."

"Aye, Lieutenant. Sorry to have mentioned it."

"No problem, Crewman. Just toss that printout into the recycler and go get something to eat. I noticed that you have been at this useless task for hours."

"Thank you, Sir. There, one chart discarded. I am off to the mess deck. Now that I think of it, I doubt anyone has ever been hungrier than I am at this moment."

In San Francisco on June 21, 2377, the sun streamed in through an office window and Ezri Dax would rather have been enjoying it on one of Earth's famed ocean beaches. After being promoted and reassigned from Deep Space 9 to Starfleet Headquarters as a counselor for PTSD victims, she was determined to help prevent wars like the one which had just two Earth years ago.

As a side line, she was going through records to find material for an article on the extent of trauma to Federation personnel during the war. The chart on her padd contained over eighty locations which had been the responsibility of one small, lightly armed supply ship. During the war, these ships had depended on speed and minimal cloaking that the Romulans had supplied. Obviously that hadn't worked as the fused metal wreck of _Supply Ship 1544_ attested. Ezri glanced through holos of the wreck taken at different angles from _Federation General Vessel 2006_. The Jem'Hadar had been merciless. As usual, no survivors. Records of the destruction of hundreds of small ships were in the datebases of the few enemy ships they had recovered intact. They were lucky to have any charts at all, like this one, from a destroyed Federation vessel.

Ezri's door chime broke into her thoughts as it registered the name of a visitor from a DNA sample as a finger tip pressed the bell.

"Enter, Jake." Ezri said and the young writer smiled as he settled his lanky frame in the visitor's chair.

"Jake, I have a great story lead, a very poignant one, for you. Publishing an article from it may get the public to put more pressure on the Federation to address migrant populations and lost pockets of Federation deployed people."

Jake Sisko clasped his hands and leaned forward. "There are many of these stories out there already. The public is saturated with them to the point of numbness. And Starfleet has done its best to rescue an overwhelming number of people, according to Nog. But tell me anyway."

"Jake, I speculate that there were many more records than we have in our hands, of small engagements over the whole of the Dominion War. Records were lost with the destruction of ships on both sides. Just imagine, pockets of shipwrecked people in escape pods and on asteroids and on small barren worlds, using up the last of their emergency rations. Some of these people may still be alive if they made it to worlds with resources. There were even small detachments of people on the hundreds of ground based listening posts which normally had supplies designed to last months, even years."

Then Ezri put her hands palm down on her desk for emphasis. "Perhaps no one would ever have known about a particular group of eighty listening posts if a crewman named Taylor had destroyed a chart as he was asked to do. He filed it instead – two years ago. I found it while mining Starfleet archives for little known stories about the war. It makes me wonder how many other hulks of supply ships and the posts they served are out there yet, possibly never to be rediscovered!"

"I have thought of that too," Jake said. "Interstellar war is so spread out, the destruction beyond comprehension. Obliteration of ships, whole cities, even whole worlds made sterile. How can we ever account for it all in an historical sense?"

"We can't document all of it, Jake. But perhaps we can give history a sense of the scope of destruction, the scale of the losses. None of the published books and articles I have read so far would give future generations a real deep feeling for what we have lived through."

"Ezri, that is not possible to do. People can never fully understand what generations before them actually lived through."

" A joined Trill can."

"Oh. I suppose so. But there are not enough joined Trills to personally address every group of people interested in the dark side of war."

"Darker side? As if war had a lighter side! But as you imply, the idea would be to personally reach people. Each time I was joined, the new host was awed by the sense of history they were receiving – a personally historic experience that the host had not lived through. But even symbionts do not live forever. When they die, we lose a living library of experience. So, Jake, what really lives on down the generations is the collection of written and vid voices of the past. We must chronicle events as best we can. You personally, as a writer, need to help with this."

"What specifically are you asking me to do?"

"Well, the Federation has recovered from the war enough beyond basic survival to begin tackling all the war records that do exist. And there are more to be found. I imagine we may be stumbling across lost material for centuries. Hopefully what we already have can serve as a deterrent to future wars. This is something which has been attempted after every war since sentient beings invented writing on each of their own worlds. None of my hosts were trained historians, but from knowledge gained over several life times, I knew this documenting was done and helped to delay, but not stop, future wars. Yet, how better to try to prevent wars except by chronicling the horrors?"

Jake slowly shook his head. "I don't know. Much has been written about past wars, the atrocities, but more wars keep occurring and advances in technology keep widening the destruction. I have learned that much from the little history I have studied."

"Well then, we must try again. I have access to funds from both government and civilian sources to write articles, then perhaps a book, showing the horrors of war in a way that might prevent future wars. My vision is to show the heartbreak and destruction on a huge scale and on a very small scale – the losses both great and small."

"I certainly could research and write such an article and even a book, though of course I cannot guarantee the effect on the peoples of the Federation. When do you want me to start?

On former Trans Systems' Liner, _Galaxy Fun Ship,_ also calledthe former commandeered _Starfleet Troopship 58003_ , and now called Cleanup Incorporated's _General Recovery Vessel_ _879_ , Jake Sisko sat mesmerized at a giant viewport. He shifted in his chair with the two front legs resting on the edge of this viewport that had been featured in advertisements which had helped to sell thousands of fun cruise tickets back when this ship had been new.

"How did this happen?" he asked, moving his feet so he could see the small town passing directly beneath his left foot. Looking through the magnifying hand scope he held in his left hand, he was also speaking into the padd held in his right hand. Fortunately the back legs of his chair were on the opaque edge of the viewport or he would feel like he was falling toward the blue-green of the planet's surface spinning by as the ship orbited.

He could walk over this five-hundred foot viewport, had actually had done so earlier, marveling at the quarter of the planet he could see at one time. On this planet alone he had seen numerous rubble pile cities, cratered farmland, once lush places turned empty where life of any kind no longer existed. There were a few struggling plants and insects in the wild lands of this planet, but no animals, no sentient life forms. Not anymore. And not likely to be for thousands of years. Sadly, it was also not very likely that the life that was left could hang on. A few of the former sentient inhabitants were languishing in evacuation camps on other worlds. As these remnants melted into other cultures, their civilization would become a footnote in galactic history. Jake made notes on his padd about these thoughts.

The ensign assigned to escort him around the ship glanced at his own padd. "A Jem'Hadar light cruiser did this. We are following its telemetry. What a path of destruction! It was assigned to eradicate small colonies, mostly unarmed farming worlds that supplied various Federation home worlds. You know, the scorched earth strategy."

Jake responded with sarcasm "So did they get ribbons or medals or something for this?"

The ensign glanced at his padd which had responded to Jake's question on its own. "Apparently the Jem'Hadar did not have a battle awards system other than extra drug hits and the odd rank promotion."

"Figures," said Jake. "I suppose the concept of overkill was not in the Jem'Hadar handbook either."

The ensign did not respond but walked onto the viewport and pointed to what looked like a field of tents as the ship passed by the terminator and into the night side of the planet.

"Want a closer look at that when we circle back in about 50 minutes?"

"Sure," said Jake. "Can we go down there in a shuttle?"

"Not much use of that, no life signs."

"Still…"

The padd emitted a short message and the ensign said "They are launching a shuttle now. But it looks like no signs of artificial light from the dark side, which is one inevitable sign there is absolutely no sentient life here. We probably will move on to the next colony world after one more pass around this one."

"Attention all hands," an authoritative voice broke in over the ship's internal com, "complete all current planetary assessments in the next ten minutes. We are breaking orbit to proceed to the rescue of _Transport Ship 3004_ carrying enemy prisoners for reparation to their home world. There is a suspected explosion onboard involving old ordinance from a battlefield cleanup. ETA two standard days. Stand by for new assignments. That is all."

Jake turned off his padd. This was the second aborted mission he had seen while on this ship. Rush here, rush there, but unlike the old children's vids where rescue occurred just in the nick of time, in this post war reality, it was often too late. This new mission sounded like another of these cases. But Prisoners?

"Hey Steven, how come we had enemy prisoners at all? And why do we STILL have them?

"Jake, this lot was an experiment to detox them off the Ketracel White, see if they could be anything other than berserker soldiers."

"But they would rather die than be captured; it wasn't in their nature to allow that."

"Very few were captured. This was an important experiment, so it is a priority rescue mission."

"For a prisoner exchange?"

"No. They didn't take prisoners any more than they allowed themselves to be taken."

"Yeah, I thought so. It is nice to have confirmation though. May I quote you?"

"Better show all you are writing to my commanding officer. Some of what you are hearing and seeing still might be classified, even with the war over."

Approaching the site of the wreck of _Transport Ship 3004_ they saw the glow first. Something was still burning on aboard. The captain ordered _General Recovery Vessel 879_ to approach slowly on thrusters, dodging around twisted pieces of metal. Unseen outside of their spotlights, dull thuds of collisions echoed through the hull.

"We are double hulled, standard passenger ship construction before the war. It is unlikely these small collisions will do much more than further mar the beauty this ship once was," Steven Ryder told Jake. "The crew have set the spotlights to moving through their ranges continuously to avoid as much debris as possible. The repulse shielding for the hull is working only intermittently and patching teams are on call for inevitable hits causing punctures. Battle damage from the war has rendered this old cruise ship barely operable as it is, but more valuable ships hog the limited star base dry dock time. This old gal is barely more space worthy than some of the ships she is sent to rescue. The less time spent in repairs means that more people stranded by the war can be found alive."

Jake nodded as he took notes. Closer to the wreck, Jake could see what might have been leakage from a water pipe. It looked like tiny spheres of ice. A few of these bubbles touched the viewport and splintered but quickly reformed into spheres.

"Is that water," Jake asked?

"Probably, Jake. Yet not all liquids behave this way in space. Some just evaporate, so who knows what leaks are still in progress. We won't be sending a shuttle over until the entire wreck hull is inspected for boarding hazards from a distance."

There was a thump against the large viewport and Jake jumped back. He stiffened when he saw what it was.

Ryder tugged at his arm. "The viewport glass is really metal but even though it will not break like glass, it is best for us to retreat into the cabin behind us. There is a window there of this same metal, so at least we will still have somewhat of a view."

Jake nodded.

Shielded behind the additional window, Jake saw another body splay itself against the viewport. It was slightly bloated from lack of air pressure in the vacuum of space before its appendages froze at unnatural angles.

Jake looked away. When he looked back again, the body was sliding along the viewport and out of sight. But soon there were others. So he focused on viewing the wreck.

"Are those small port holes for individual sleeping quarters?" he asked as they started to circle the wreck to get an understanding of the damage.

"Yes," Steven said in a hoarse whisper, almost as intrigued as Jake though he had seen many wrecks in the last year. "It seems that sections of this ship may have intact environmental controls. We are searching for signs of life."

On the second circumference of the wreck, Ensign Ryder said "I believe we will be boarding."

"Us? Will that be allowed?"

"Doubtful, for you. I might be called, though. I have been part of a couple boarding teams, but there is not much left of this ship. The middle looks completely gutted. See that one section with flickering lights? They were steady on the last pass over this section. There – that dark line of small round ports, wasn't it lit up last time we passed it?"

"I'm not sure," Jake replied, squinting his eyes.

Jake had been too absorbed in the debris field moving slowly through the spotlights to take detailed notice of the wreck itself. From inertia, the debris was slowly moving further and further from the ship. There was a jumble of machines, tools, hand weapons, bedding, personal items, and of course more bodies out there. Bodies and body parts - just floating there in space. The bodies, in grotesque positions, were simply everywhere. Nearer the ship itself, the dim and dying lights winked on frozen vapor from oil and other liquids hanging immobile, ghostly. Pipes stuck out with ends twisted closed or sheared off cleanly. Frozen vapor hung next to the truncated ends of some of these pipes, in spheres like he saw earlier. Crew quarters, utility spaces, what may have been the mess deck, were open to space in an affront to order and privacy. Perversely, it reminded Jake of the gutted fish he and his dad used to clean. How was ever he going to write about this?

Jake turned to Ensign Ryder. "Okay, Steven, what do you think happened here? This ship was not attacked by some enemy ship that had not gotten the word the war has been over for two years, right? Probably a munitions explosion like they thought?"

"There is always a possibility of an enemy ship out there, disabled and without coms, limping home with enough weapons still intact to cause this amount of damage - but highly unlikely, Jake. Maybe an accident due to long overdue maintenance. In fact, that happens a lot, you know. Heck, it does look like an ordinance explosion. I wish we could see it closer."

"Do you have statistics on accidents due to lack of maintenance vs. cargo explosions?"

"Of course. If you have had enough of this viewing, let's go check it out. We are starting to back away to a safer distance and I see a boarding shuttle heading out."

Jake sighed and followed Steven to a cabin with computers and no windows. He had seen enough of the floaters, so no windows was just fine.

"I'd really like to see this wreck from up close, Steven," Jake asked once he had loaded the statistics he wanted into his padd.

"I'd like to see it closer too. It must be safe enough to approach if we sent a shuttle over to explore the interior. Wait, I know! We do have other small craft, of sorts, on board. Let me get permission to use one."

An hour later, Jake was wiping blood from a cut where his head had hit the tiny viewport. He had buckled his safety harness to get his camera up close. The observation craft was not supposed to dock with any ship but its own and you couldn't really call what they had done 'docking', yet they were now completely stuck to the wreck.

"Sit back!" Steven had shouted, one hand slapping Jake in the chest as he tried to haul back on the reverse thruster control.

There had been clang of metal as they struck the wreck hull, followed by renting sound before a derrick of some kind shook the observation pod, pinning it solidly against the wreck hull making the pod gave inward. The screeching from the shaking of the half-crushed pod was still ringing in Jake's ears. Later, Jake would be admonished by the captain who would tell him that if he just had told the crew what photos he wanted, they could have gotten them from the ship's external cameras.

Had Ensign Ryder known they could have used these cameras? If he had, he hadn't mentioned it to Jake. So maybe he hadn't mentioned it because he also was very eager to get a closer view of the wreck. That was no solace to Jake because here was Ensign Ryder, definitely deceased in the pilot's chair. He was as dead as the little observation pod was now. The pod was really just a repurposed, supped up escape pod, repurposed like everything else in post war Starfleet.

With the derrick smashed through the hull and against the pilot's seat and the dashboard controls, nothing was now working. There was no way to communicate with _General Recovery Vessel_ _879_ anymore _,_ as far as Jake could tell. Unfortunately they were on the opposite side of the wreck from _Vessel 879._ Someone would eventually come to rescue the pair. That would be after a half hour of not hearing from them. They had set half hour coms with the on duty coms watch stander. It would be too late because he could hear air leaking out several punctures in the small formally round hull.

The last photo he took of the interior through that jagged hole in the wreck showed Jake what he was up against. He could think of only one way out of this debacle. He had a light space exposure suit on, and gloves, but there was no air flow when he pressed the switch on the air tank. Darn post war lack of maintenance! He put the helmet on anyway, as protection from the vacuum of space. If he could get the hatch open, he might be able to push off the side of the pod hull and float inside the wreck to grab that rail he saw in his photo. It was some kind of machine room that was now open to space. He just might be able to pull himself along that rail and find a door he could open into a still pressurized part of the wreck. And if he could do that, he just might run into a rescue/salvage crew.

Jake leaned back in his seat and took slow deep breaths. Maybe they would be his last of sweet, warm air. Okay. The air wasn't so sweet any more now anyway, it wasn't satisfying his need to breathe comfortably. Time to go. He put on his helmet and unbolted the hatch. Though a bit bent, it came open easily, sucking him and the last of the air out - fortunately in the direction he needed to go. He even managed to push off with one foot.

Wrong move. Pushing with one foot sent him spinning.

He slammed into the machine room railing, just managing to hook it with a leg and a gloved hand. Gripping it hard, he started pulling himself along it, hand over hand, feet bumping against the supports and threatening to push him off.

Suppressing the increasing need to breathe, he noticed a door was close by but he would have to let go of the railing. No.

He pulled himself along four more painful hand holds and bumped his head on…a…door! Pulling down the latch with his fading strength, he opened it enough to pull himself through. The rush of air almost ripped his grip away, but he held on, pulled himself inside, and then closed the door after all the air was out.

It was dark. He lifted the helmet and automatically tried to breath. Nothing! He slammed down the helmet. Starting to black out, he pushed off the door, floating down the companionway with his arms out in front of him. Then shortly he banged into another door. Fumbling for a latch, he found one and pulled with the last of his strength. It opened - to interior lighting and sweet, sweet air rushing in as he lifted the helmet again. He had no strength left, so the air had blown him back against the first door. He felt along the bottom of the door for leakage in his improvised airlock but it seemed to be holding. Then he passed out.

When Jake came to, he was sucking in air, but it now had a stale, metallic taste. Okay though, he was alive. For now. He lay sprawled on a metal grating until his breathing settled. The lighting beyond the further door, now partially open, was dim and flickering. He wanted to crawl because that would keep him close to the lighting which ran along the floor by the side of the grating beyond the other door.

No, crawling was not necessary or very manly. He was an adult, not a child. But why was he thinking like this? Was he still oxygen deprived?

He got shakily to his feet and ran his hand along the wall as he walked. What part of the ship was he in? He went through the other door, closed it, then came to a cross corridor. It was marked B deck, companionway 3. The cross corridor was companionway 2. Which?

Okay, take 2. Then there was a ladder and at the top, a hatch. Was there air on A Deck, above on the other side or hard vacuum? He pounded his fist on it. No answer. Maybe he should go back down, look for survivors on B deck. Why hadn't he thought of that when he was down there?

After climbing back down to B Deck, he began opening doors. There were offices and then some crew quarters. Then he found a storage locker with exposure suits. They had helmets and air bottles. Yeah! He put one helmet on, fumbling with all the closures which were of a universal Starfleet kind and mated with his suit. He attached the air tank, plugging in the hose. Then he turned it on and it worked. Switching it off, he retraced his steps.

Back at the hatch to A Deck he switched his air back on and opened the hatch. Light on the other side and air! He switched off his air tank while walking about fifteen paces down the companionway, then stopped to listen.

Someone touched his shoulder from behind and he yelled. The hand fell away as he turned to find a young woman with a hand to her mouth. She whimpered and fell forwards against him, then fainted.

When she revived, she took him to others. There were six of them on the bridge with only dying emergency lights and a pile of emergency rations on a blanket on the floor. They didn't even know a rescue ship was nearby and a shuttle was docked with their ship. They thought there was no one else alive. It had been days - they had forgotten how many. Yes, the internal coms system still worked, but only on this deck and the portion of B Deck this side of the explosion site, so why bother? They had just been waiting to die when the food ran out unless the life support went first.

Jake told them to activate the internal com and keep hailing until the rescue party heard them.

"Let's all keep calm, it will be okay," he told these traumatized survivors. And he asked what had happened to their ship. Then they all wanted to talk at once. An hour later, he had most of their story when the rescue party arrived. It was then that Jake realized he had a lot of explaining to do himself – to the captain of _Vessel 879_. All of a sudden he was almost too tired to care.

A day later, after being grilled by the captain and several other officers including the ship's counselor, Jake finally started writing an outline for his article. Jake reviewed what he now knew. The transport ship had been carrying Jem'Hadar munitions that the transport crew knew little about handling and they didn't trust their prisoners enough to ask them. These had exploded, actually taking out the middle of the ship and leaving survivors in the separated sections unaware of each other.

The six in the bridge were the third watch crew. The captain and some of the highest ranking officers were unfortunately killed by the explosion. Most of the prisoners and their current shift guards were still alive, but unlike the people on the bridge, they had no food and little water. Most of them survived but were in poor condition. _Vessel 879_ was now a crowded ship after they abandoned _Transport 3004_.

Jake dictated to his padd "Sometime in the future, _Transport 3004_ might become salvage for an enterprising business. Starfleet might even give salvage companies the locations of such wrecks. It would keep someone in business for decades."

Jake contacted Ezri to find out how her research was coming along. They had an appointment to meet and discuss what they both had so far. While writing, Jake was thinking about his father again. He was thinking about Nog too. They were heroes, real ones. He had been called a hero by the six people waiting to die on the bridge of _Transport 3004_ but that status did not sit well with him.

Months later, Jake returned to Earth. Ezri's office at Starfleet headquarters in San Francisco had a relaxing comfort about it that Jake could not quite describe, especially after his recent experiences. The indirect lighting plus the natural light coming in the large windows overlooking the bay helped build the comfort feeling. It was subtle, as were the mostly neutral colors accented with light green and pale yellow pillows on comfortable chairs. The soft beige carpet made him want to remove his shoes and dig his toes into it.

"Shall we get down to scoping out this article, then go off for lunch at my favorite seafood restaurant? Or shall we take advantage of my status and commandeer a Starfleet air taxi and head to your grandfather's restaurant in New Orleans?"

Ezri was smiling engagingly so Jake sank back into his chair, steepled his hands and said "Seafood. If we went to New Orleans we would be grilled for hours about my future plans, then lectured about them for many more hours and forced to stay for dinner too. We probably would be hustled into the kitchen instead of sitting out front with the customers, and then, coaxed into helping with the dishes after we ate."

"Sounds delightful! But I have clients with evening appointments. So it will have to be only lunch. Seafood it is, then."

Jake sighed and closed his eyes for a second. "The past weeks on a Starfleet vessel have brought back thoughts unrelated to my article research. Unresolved feelings."

"Talk to me, Jake. I sense you are requesting my counselor function."

"Yes, just a little, okay? It is just that…I am no hero. That stuff is for Nog. And," his voice changed to a whisper, "my father."

"You miss your father, don't you? I miss him too."

"It is not about just missing him. Or that I am sometimes mad at him for leaving me. Though there is that too. His career always put him in danger; I understand that. And he sacrificed himself to save a lot of people, not just me. As the Vulcans say, the needs of the many…"

"But?" prompted Ezri.

"Yeah, well, I suppose I am a bit selfish in feeling I wanted more of him at the expense of other people, less hero stuff and more father-son stuff. Also I feel he wanted more from me, even after he got over my deserting the Starfleet plan he had for me."

"Jake, you can't desert what you never agreed to take on. You had a special relationship with your father as his only child. You did have more of him than all the others he took responsibility for. I know this personally, as Curzon, as Jadzia, and of course, as Ezri."

"I know you were close. That is why I value your opinion. I keep looking for his approval and probably always will be looking for it. Those traumatized people on the bridge of that wreck think I am a hero. But if I hadn't talked Ensign Ryder into taking me closer to the wreck in that clunky little repurposed escape pod, he never would have died. That is not the action of a hero."

"I disagree, Jake. That ensign had a mind of his own and a sense of adventure. He was not breaking any Starfleet rules because he did ask permission to use that pod. I know. I looked into the incident."

"But I did ask him to get in close, and he followed my wish."

"Your wish, not your order. He did this of his own free will. It was, perhaps, a bold and dangerous act, a calculated risk just like many brave people take, including your father and Nog. You acted boldly and logically to get yourself inside that wreck. In the reports given by the survivors on the bridge, you were the one who calmed them, gave them hope, and solved their communications problem. If it weren't for you, perhaps the rescue team would never have found them. Benjamin Sisko would have been bursting with pride over your actions. Trust me!"

"Did those people really say that in their reports?"

"Yes, do you want to see the reports?"

"Wow, no, I believe you. Well, maybe later, I would like to see the reports. After I finish the article."

Jake stood. "I'm hungry now."

Ezri smiled. "That is a healthy sign. Let's go to lunch."

Two weeks later at Starfleet's enlisted recruit training center on Earth - Biloxi, Mississippi, Ezri Dax, overwhelmed with emotion, stood up stiffly and walked to the window. The entries lay open on the padd on her desk. Her half-eaten sandwich sat on a plate, likely to remain unfinished after what she had just been reading. The journal had been recovered from the listening post along with only two of the bodies. Crewman Taylor, thought he knew what hunger was, but how could he really know? Yet in his hands was the location of a listening post where a starving man might still have been alive. There was no hope for that now. Had Starfleet come even a year earlier, they might have been able to save T'Zin in her deep Vulcan hibernating sleep.

This haunted Ezri. Yet Taylor had had the foresight to save a valuable document which would lead Starfleet to find another valuable document – this journal. Ezri returned to her desk and her search of the records on the four listening post crewmen that she had data mined from Starfleet communication records. She was trying to summarize their personalities in a few brief words from vmails in their own voices.

T'Zin – Vulcan coms specialist:

My friend T'Lin,

You must know, but I will tell you again that by the time I was old enough to realize the Vulcan Science Academy was a hopeless goal, I also knew my intended was the wrong choice. My parents finally turned silent on the subject after years of admonishments for my not matching his academic progress. Their wan smiles and words like "Oh well, you are good at domestic tasks and very patient with children" were weak solace.

I dislike domestic tasks. Intensely. Yes, that is an emotional expression. So be it. Yet I do enjoy hikes in the desert and climbing challenging cliff faces. Isolated spaces have always held an attraction for me. So I rebelled like many Vulcans before me and enlisted in Starfleet. I specialized in communications training. Now the war has come and an isolated posting which I am looking forward to. But I will miss not meeting with you as you suggested for dinner and reminiscing. Maybe after the war? By then too, I should be resigned to my duty as wife and hopefully, mother.

Heather Sanders – human medic:

My dear little sister Sally,

Here is what I can remember of a conversation with my friend, John. He said "Why aren't you a doctor? You are so good at treating wounds."

Sally, that is also what my patients always say. Well, as a teenager, as you might remember, I was just too eager to get out in the work world. The term 'first responder' gripped my imagination and I wanted to be on my own, earning money, living independent of our parents. Going to university would have extended my dependence. So I took an EMT course and then joined Starfleet. Home life growing up wasn't so great, as you know. But I won't bore you with that, because thinking about it bores me. I am glad to hear you have a scholarship that has allowed you to stay in the dorms at the university, even if it is only walking distance from the home we grew up in.

You know what? My work does have its challenges. Just yesterday we had to stop an engineering technician from bleeding out right on the nacelle outside the ship. A chunk of metal hit him from a small explosion during hot work (welding) on the ship in the next berth. I thought my magnetic boots, sticking hard to the skin of our ship, would never let me get to him in time. I could see the blood pour out of the rent in his exposure suit forming a cloud above him. I thought he was finished. But I got pressure on the wound and dragged him back inside the ship. That Telarite recovered, but frankly, his gratitude when I talked to him afterwards was rather insulting. But I realize it was quite sincere, according to his culture.

So this is not a dead end job like mom and dad think! Me, a hero! Well, in a small way. And now I am taking additional training in subspace coms while I wait to hear if I qualify for nursing school. Hopefully the rumors of small observation team postings for some of us are just rumors. That is the only way this war with the Dominion has touched the crew on my ship so far.

Na'vats – Andorian team leader:

Lieutenant Jones, in answer to your question about why I want this promotion, my family goes back many generations in Starfleet, and before that, the Imperial Guard. What else was I to do with my life? Yes, I am ready for a small command.

Azor – Trill electronics technician:

Laurie, I have read your bio on the dating site. You look so confident and friendly. In answer to one of your questions, I have never been married. I was close to marriage once but I am unattached and would like to initiate a friendship with you.

I must tell you, though, that I followed my childhood sweetheart into Starfleet. Then she was joined and we no longer had much in common. That symbiont changed her personality beyond what I could deal with. I was warned this would happen but did not believe it would because I thought our love was unbreakably strong. But it did happen and she became interested in things that we never considered doing before. She moved on. I am still, well, me.

That you are human does not in one bit put me off to a possible romantic relationship. In fact, it does reassure me somewhat, since you will not be telling me one day that you are starting training with the object of qualifying for a symbiont. Okay, you really are not interested in that, are you? Of course you are not! Although humans have been temporary hosts. Just my paranoia showing. So if you are interested in exploring a relationship with me, vmail me back, okay?

….

Laurie, I really enjoyed meeting you on Star Base 16. We had a great time, didn't we? I am afraid that it will be some time before we can see each other again. And thanks for taking my pet lizard. You will be able to order more of his food from Trill through star base pet shops and even on Earth in exotic pet shops (I checked) after your job ends and you return to your home world. As you know, I can't take much with me to this new posting with a small team and can't tell you even where it is. Some place inhospitable and lonely, of which there are many in our vast universe, don't you think? Take care until we see each other again. And thanks for the holo so your pretty smiling face will cheer me during long duty shifts.

Ezri swiveled away from her screen and looked out the window at new recruits doing PT (physical training) on the training center grounds. The humans and Vulcans had separate strength equipment but both species had sessions at the South Pole for cold adaption work. The humans later had heavy world and desert training on Vulcan. There were other enlisted training centers like the one on Andoria which took in Trill and Tellarite recruits. She had visited that base in her research on the team assigned to Listening Post LV15821. Ezri was sad that Starfleet's brief search of that tiny dead world had not turned up more than two bodies of the team that she was getting to know through what was left of their lives in digital form. Two of them must have been truly desperate to leave their shelter in search of something which might have helped them survive. Ezri understood death very well, in multiple aspects, having survived eight deaths herself, well, the Dax part of her had.

She turned back to her task.

"I think this is enough. Jake can take it from here," Ezri told herself before sending off her vmail of the listening post crew's words, along with their holo photos.

She wondered if his article contrasting entire lost worlds with small pockets of lost life would make a difference. Perhaps the voices of the dead would really help make this the war to end all wars – this time.

16


End file.
